


Tried to Wash You Away, But You Just Won't Leave

by Jaune



Series: Haunting [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-08 21:33:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15252489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaune/pseuds/Jaune
Summary: Post Infinity War Johnlock.





	Tried to Wash You Away, But You Just Won't Leave

Sherlock admires John's silhouette. As silhouettes go, objectively John's is moderately pleasing. Subjectively, Sherlock finds it unnervingly endearing.

Sherlock abhors the amount of sentiment he is subjected to in these current days, abhors how his perfect subjugation of his emotions has been corrupted and overridden. 

Previously, his control over them had been absolute. Before John. Though Sherlock thinks he can surely at least partially credit this lapse to the fact that he hasn't slept in several days, as well.

John is standing sentinel, back stiff and hands held neatly together at his lower spine, leaning slightly forward to inspect the very baseboard that had earlier allowed Sherlock to deduce the placement of the hidden compartment where stolen valuables had been sequestered. That had been the conclusion of the case. It had been a simple thing. Sherlock had not even needed John. He had hardly needed John... 

Sherlock had maybe needed John a bit. A little bit. The littlest bit. So-miniscule-as-to-be-unseen-except-by-2000x-microscope littlest bit.

At any rate, it had been a fairly clear case, the only hitch being that the thief had met his untimely demise before he had been able to confess the location of his spoils to NSY. One text from Lestrade to Sherlock's mobile, and few hours later has even that bit sorted, despite Sherlock's slight (unnoticeable, John, surely) lethargy. All in all, Sherlock deems this case clean enough: the case has ended without the taste of blood in his mouth, which is often the line he uses to differentiate and which fact is also likely a relief to John--if Sherlock could be bothered enough to consider that. 

John, however, clearly has other thoughts on his mind as he continues to regard the wall panel. Sherlock knows that--unlike himself and very strange indeed--John is quite interested in puzzles even _after_ they are solved, but then again John has shown himself several times over to have peculiar tastes. 

After all, he calls Sherlock his best friend when most people can not stand Sherlock's company, and the people who can endure it Sherlock inevitably finds _extremely_ boring. John is neither. Even though Sherlock is 83.7 percent certain that he has found the only hidden compartment the building walls can feasibly be hiding, he will not stop John pursuing any remaining mystery they might hold. If Sherlock has overlooked anything (improbable, but he would reluctantly admit to himself that it was not impossible) then his dear Watson was certainly the person who would find it. 

John is an instrument of illumination; his mind and sight are bright and keen, as is the gleam of his deep eyes in the evening dark and the sheen of his fine bristle of blond hair. 

If Sherlock was romantic, he would say that the moonlight sluiced across John's soft features. Sherlock is not a romantic, and his logic is even less so; the London streetlights are bright in this area, and their glow throws half of his doctor's face into shadow and the other into sharp relief. If the window was open, they would no doubt be inundated with the scent of London after a rain--petrichor, geosmin (less present this far into London, because there is less soil--of course), and the unique miasma of chemicals that comprises the city's ever-present smog. Its thick perfume surely awaits their departure from the building.

Sherlock tries not to sigh. He won't sigh over John, in John's presence. Perhaps one or the other, but not both. He does have some pride. Mycroft's voice echoes in his mind, telling him to have some composure, but Sherlock swiftly represses it lest he be tempted to whine at volume and/or strip and cast all his clothes out of the window at a crime scene simply to spite his brother.

What would John think of that? Sherlock's friend, whose attention and appreciation Sherlock craves, who freely gives Sherlock that devotion--when he isn't lavishing it on nonexistent hidden compartments. Sherlock tries not to be jealous.

It is unbearable.

Sherlock orders a cab, exits the crime scene in a flair of elegance ('swept' John, not "swanned" for Heaven's sake), beckons John along, and has them on their way back to Baker Street in short order. John has some questions about the case, mostly a rehashing of events for his post-case writeup, which Sherlock easily answers with no effort. 

Instead, he ponders the conundrum of needing something outside of himself, another addiction (this time, one he really could not control) that has begun to influence Sherlock, and seems primed to increase progressively as time goes on. 

John's admiration. 

John's devotion. 

After prolonged exposure to them, Sherlock has come to have certain... requirements.

Sherlock surfaces from his deep thoughts to find that John has led him into their apartment, taking over care of Sherlock's body and wellbeing (transport, the tedious thing) in the moments when Sherlock's thoughts had run away with his consciousness. 

This occurrence, often as it may repeat, warms something in Sherlock. It is certainly another piece of evidence of John's affection for Sherlock. As always, his doctor is taking care of him.

His doctor. His. _Sherlock's_. 

Sherlock likes sound of that.

Of course there _is_ the Hippocratic Oath which John has sworn: _do no harm, etcetera, etcetera_ but Sherlock had long ago concluded that it was much more than obligation to upholding that promise which held his doctor to him, made John concern himself over Sherlock. After all, there have been many times John has done harm to others in Sherlock's name, despite his oath. 

The feeling that realization arouses in Sherlock is heady.

As is John's kiss. 

And Sherlock really cannot be held accountable for losing a bit (read: all) of his composure at receiving the very gift he had not yet had the wherewithal to ask for.

"I love you." John says, staring up at Sherlock with those wide, dark eyes from where his body is sandwiching Sherlock against the sitting room wall. John's chest is a solid wall of heat where it is pressed to Sherlock's. John's right leg had insinuated itself between Sherlock's long legs, and the line of warmth John's calf has made along Sherlock's own is overtaxing Sherlock's mind.

"Mmrnph," Sherlock replies concisely, and only John's delighted chuckle stops Sherlock inner grief and remonstration over his own inability to form a cohesive response.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have done this when it's clear you're so tired," John says, clearly amused but also pleased by Sherlock's response. Sherlock mentally deconstructs John's expression: his amusement is for Sherlock's verbal gaff, his satisfaction is because of Sherlock's favorable response to his romantic overtures. 

John's enthusiastic peal of giggles after this is Sherlock's first clue that his deconstruction may not, in fact, have been merely mental.

"Wow, you're more knackered than I thought," John says, ignoring Sherlock's affronted expression and leading him by the hand into Sherlock's bedroom.

'A Holmes never knackers and is never knackering,' Sherlock wants to answer but doesn't do so, since John is lowering himself into the sheets as well, sliding in behind Sherlock, and Sherlock doesn't want to say anything that might make John question his position. Sherlock does not want to say anything that will make John want to be anywhere but where he is right now, in Sherlock's bed (their bed, now, he vows) and beside Sherlock.

John smiles and leans in to kiss him again, a chaste peck on the lips that is clearly a goodnight kiss. They settle close together, facing each other, heads resting on the same pillow. John wraps an arm around Sherlock's back and Sherlock throws an arm over John's shoulders.

"I love you," John says quietly. His gaze still bravely meets Sherlock's, though the returning gaze is half-mast from fatigue.

'I know,' Sherlock thinks, serene at the knowledge that his regard is requited.

"Mmrnph," Sherlock repeats instead of voicing the sentiment, eyes falling closed completely on John's answering smile. 

"Yeah, I get it. I'll leave you alone. We'll talk in the morning." John says. It's the last thing Sherlock hears before he falls asleep.

Sherlock wakes up alone the next day. Judging by the angle at which the sun is illuminating his floorboards, he has slept through the entire morning and well into late afternoon. What a waste of time, all those hours sleeping when criminals were getting up to crimes (hopefully some of them were interesting) all across the city! There is so much to learn, so much to deduce and unravel! 

At this, Sherlock turns to get out of bed, only to pause at the evidence that he had not slept alone the previous night. Even if Sherlock had not remembered what had happened the previous evening, he would have been able to easily deduce it from the evidence left behind. 

His pillow is still indented from where John had lain his head. John's fragrance lingers on the pillow and the sheets. His bed smells like John. Sherlock takes a moment to press his face into the pillow and inhale deeply. The scent of John is mixed with that of Sherlock's linen, and Sherlock wants to smell this exact fragrance every day for the rest of his life.

This is the scent of Sherlock's happiness, his future.

Sherlock's memories of last night resurface--the kiss, the confession first, and then Sherlock's lack of answer--and he knows he must rectify his oversight as soon as possible. People have been known to do foolish things because of unrequited love, and Sherlock's reticence to voice his own feelings for John is not worth giving up John's permanent presence, permanent loyalty, permanent fix for Sherlock's addiction. 

John would be permanent for Sherlock, too. Sherlock vows this. John is his first and would be his last, his forever.

 

Sherlock rises from bed, dresses, and calls to John. When there is no reply, Sherlock checks his phone. No messages, not even any missed calls (which John does on occasion when his hands aren't free or when he just wants to annoy Sherlock, whom he is aware strongly prefers to text). 

Sherlock searches both upstairs and downstairs for him, to no avail. He comes upon Mrs. Hudson, asks her whether she has seen John.

"No, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson says, slow and stilted, face an intriguing myriad of emotions: sadness, anger, fear, pity, and a few others Sherlock can't spend the moments it takes to detangle. "Oh dear, have you seen the news Sherlock? Maybe you should sit down. We can talk--"

Sherlock thinks he shook his head before he continued on his way out of the door, but he's not sure. He doesn't have time to sit and talk, though, can't Mrs. Hudson understand that? He must find John. 

John still doesn't know how Sherlock returns his affection, and he could be doing something foolish at this very moment! Sherlock has to find him.

Sherlock goes to New Scotland Yard, but they've been advised not to let him in without Lestrade who, inconveniently, is not answering his phone. Sherlock has called him seven times now. He has called John twenty times.

Sherlock visits John's sister, but she is drunk and hardly coherent. Once he leaves, she will likely not even remember their conversation, or whether he had been there at all. Still, it's easy to deduce John has not visited her in some time, even without decoding her slurred replies. 

Sherlock checks John's other haunts. It's quick work. There aren't many. And there's no John.

Where is he? Sherlock will not hesitate to claim he is the world's greatest detective; so why is he having such difficulty finding one man? The very man whose life is so entwined with his own that they never go a full day without seeing each other? 

Sherlock is tasting blood in his mouth. This case... it isn't clean. No one has punched him--and yet, though it is somehow impossible, the acrid copper taste is there all the same. He thinks it may be because of his desperation or his nervousness, a sense of dread which he tries to rationalize away and then, when that doesn't work, to suppress. That doesn't work, either.

Sherlock has called John twenty times more by the time he gets back to Baker Street.

Sherlock paces by his bed, stopping to study the light scattering of a black, ash-like substance that covers the floor near his bed. He takes a sample to investigate later and cleans up the rest. He hates cleaning, of course. He's only doing it because he knows what needs to be done next, and he hates that more.

Sherlock calls Mycroft.

"John's missing," Sherlock says. 

There's a pause, and then Mycroft sighs. Sherlock can not understand the level of despair in the sound, and wonders briefly whether it is put on, whether Mycroft is attempting to manipulate him, and what Mycroft could have to gain by doing that.

"John isn't missing." Mycroft states.

 _John is missing,"_ Sherlock hisses, insistent.

The line is silent for long moments. Then, Mycroft explains.

The Avengers have lost.

Thanos has won.

"John is gone," Mycroft says. "… I told you, brother mine. Caring is not an advantage."

Sherlock doesn't remember ending the call. He doesn't remember climbing, fully clothed, into his bed (their bed, now. His and John's-- _JohnJohnwhereisJohn_ ) but the next time he deigns to acknowledge his surroundings, that is where he is. That's where he is and what he's done--but what does that matter? Why would that matter?

It doesn't matter. 

Sherlock is alone.

Because the Avengers...

Failed.

**Author's Note:**

> As you can see, my Infinity War feelings are still not resolved. 
> 
> Just saw Ant-Man and The Wasp yesterday... which definitely did not help.


End file.
